by Ben Rehder
“What does she do for a living nowadays?”
“Don’t know that either.”
“Okay, well...”
“I’ll keep digging. See if I can get in touch with her.”
“At least you have an address now,” Garza said.
“Assuming it’s current. But it’d be nice to find a phone number or email address, so I don’t have to drive up there.”
Garza switched topics and proceeded to tell Marlin about a man named Gilbert Weems, from Jasper County. Six-foot-six, with red hair. Found in the company of the Bryant twins, one of whom drove a diesel-powered truck. Garza said the men weren’t willing to talk.
“This guy Weems has about eight nuts loose, according to the sheriff over there. Dangerous because he doesn’t care. He was really trying to push our buttons. Talking all kinds of trash.”
“Think he’s our shooter?”
“Innocent until proven guilty and all that, but yeah, I do. He wanted me to think so, too, just to torment us. One of those jerks who thinks he’s too smart to get caught.”
“What about the Bryants?” Marlin asked.
“Not quite as out there as Weems. I’ll flip one or both of them. Just you watch.”
Unpredictability.
That was the thing about Gilbert Weems that always put Dustin Bryant on edge. One minute Gilbert would be having a good time, drinking a beer, telling a story, the next he might cold-cock some guy who jostled his elbow at the bar. No warning, either. Just... bam! And right after, you’d see this look in Gilbert’s eyes, like he’d just as soon stomp the guy’s head like a watermelon. Like he enjoyed hurting people.
Dustin himself didn’t mind a little craziness now and again, but not the going-to-prison kind of craziness. That’s why this game warden thing was a concern. Who the fuck takes potshots at a law-enforcement officer for no reason at all? Gilbert Weems, that’s who.
Dustin and Dylan had dropped him off on the side of the road so he could scout that particular piece of property, and the plan was to pick him up ten or fifteen minutes later. Enough time for him to look around for signs of feral pigs. Gilbert would give them a call when he was ready. So Dustin had driven on down the road about a mile and parked on the shoulder.
Then they heard a shot from Gilbert’s direction.
Then another.
And a third, but this one sounded different from the first two. More like a handgun.
Then another shot that sounded like the first two.
Then a few minutes later, Gilbert finally called. The cell signal was weak, and Gilbert’s voice was breaking up, but it sounded like he said he’d been “having some fun” with a game warden.
Lord.
Dustin wondered at the time if Gilbert had just killed a man. No way to know for sure, because you couldn’t always believe what he told you. But he said he didn’t hit the warden, and there was nothing in the news later, no massive manhunt, so Gilbert must have been telling it straight.
But still—that kind of behavior was just plain nuts. The local cops wouldn’t let something like that slide. Which is why Dustin hadn’t been surprised when the sheriff and his deputy had shown up at the motel. Fast, though, he’d give them that. Obviously, from what the sheriff had said, the game warden must have seen, or at least heard, Dustin’s diesel truck. And the warden had probably gotten a decent look at Gilbert, too.
Dustin had wondered what the charges would be if they got caught. Attempted murder? Assault with a deadly weapon? A felony of some kind, for sure. He wasn’t willing to take that kind of fall when it was all Gilbert’s doing. Gilbert the troublemaker, dragging them into a clusterfuck.
And it was about to get even worse.
They stopped at a convenience store for more beer and some Cokes to mix with whiskey. Drink cheap before they hit some of the local beer joints.
Gilbert had been drinking hard ever since the sheriff had come by, and Dustin had been holding his breath. He recognized the signs that Gilbert could do just about anything at any given moment.
Dylan opened his door, but Gilbert said he’d do it, he’d go get the stuff. So he climbed out of the truck and went inside, and Dustin could see that he was unsteady on his feet.
Dylan, from the backseat, quietly said, “This ain’t good, bro.”
Dustin didn’t reply. The way he saw it, he and his brother didn’t have a lot of choices. See if they could ride it out. That was the way to go. Because the only other option was to snitch on Gilbert, and that would turn into a world of shit, no doubt about it. Dustin could only imagine what would happen if they pissed Gilbert off and turned him into an enemy. Gilbert had told them some stories about things he’d supposedly done in the past. Things way worse than taking potshots at a game warden.
“Maybe we should go back home,” Dylan said. “Forget this stupid pig hunt. Before we really get in trouble.”
They were parked on the side of the store, and Dustin could see Gilbert through the windows. Hard to miss the tall bastard. He was lingering near the beer cooler, too drunk to locate his brand.
“Push comes to shove,” Dylan said, “we need to back each other up. You and me, I’m talking about. Screw him. We tell the truth in exchange for no charges.”
“Well, duh, but let’s wait and see what happens,” Dustin said. “We might not have to do nothin’.”
Gilbert finally found the right beer and was now making his way toward the soft drinks.
“We had no idea he was gonna do what he did,” Dylan said. “So they shouldn’t be able to bust us for it.”
Dustin stayed quiet.
Dylan said, “But I’m guessing the longer we wait, the less likely the sheriff’s gonna believe we wasn’t part of it. We gotta come forward before they can prove it was us out there.”
Gilbert was at the cash register, paying the clerk. A small green car pulled into the spot on the truck’s passenger side.
“Ain’t no reason to be afraid of Gilbert,” Dylan said. “He’s full of shit. Besides, it’d be two against one.”
Gilbert exited through the glass door at the front of the store and turned right, then turned right again at the corner, coming back to the truck. He had a twelve-pack of Bud in one hand and a twelve-pack of Coke in the other.
The driver of the little green car, talking on his cell phone, stepped out and made his way toward the sidewalk. Paying no attention to Gilbert at all.
It was about to get even worse.
Dustin would have stopped it if he had known what was going to happen. But that was the problem with Gilbert Weems.
Unpredictability.
Dustin was watching and saw the way Gilbert suddenly focused on the driver of the green car. The look that came over Gilbert’s face. Disgust and revulsion, all in an instant. Dustin could tell that Gilbert wanted to do something. To lash out. But his hands were full. So he made a snap decision and used the only other weapon that was available to him.
Gilbert said something to the man. Then he leaned back at the waist, whipped forward, and brought his forehead crashing down into the other man’s face.
It was the most savage head-butt Dustin had ever seen, and the driver of the little green car crumpled under the blow like he’d been shot by a deer rifle. His knees didn’t even have a chance to buckle. The man was out cold before he hit the concrete.
CHAPTER 23
Marlin woke at six o’clock, brewed some coffee, and went straight to his computer. Just a few years earlier, he could hardly have conducted a simple Internet search. But he’d had some practice since then and had become proficient. Skilled, even. He’d learned that it wasn’t that tough to track someone down online—if they could be tracked down.
He began with the most obvious step and checked a couple of telephone directories. Aleksandra Babikova wasn’t listed. That would’ve been too easy. Like many people her age, she probably didn’t even have a landline. Cell phone only.
He checked Facebook. There were a handful of Aleksandra Babiko
vas, but none of the profile photos showed the right Aleksandra Babikova. Either she did not have an account, or she had selected the option that excluded her from public search results. There was a page for fans of Aleksandra Babikova, but it said right up front that a fan ran the page and Ms. Babikova was not associated with it. Nearly three thousand people had “liked” the page. The last post had been three months earlier—a video clip from the movie in which Babikova had had a small part. Marlin watched it. Babikova looked great on screen, but she was a terrible actress.
The previous evening, before speaking to Garza, Marlin had completed a cursory Google search to confirm that the woman in the photo was in fact Babikova. Now he conducted another Google search, going deeper. He found a lot of references to her—and information about her—but nothing of value. Most of it was pretty old.
He checked the tax rolls for both Dallas County and Tarrant County. Nada. She didn’t appear to own a home or any real estate in the Dallas/Fort Worth area. Probably rented.
This wasn’t looking good.
There was a Wikipedia page for Babikova, but there was nothing there that indicated what line of work she was in now or how she might be contacted. However, it mentioned a sister named Tatyana. Back to Facebook, then.
A search gave half a dozen results, but it was easy to rule out most of them based on age. One young woman who lived in Saint Petersburg, Russia, had a profile photo that was encouraging. She looked a lot like Aleksandra Babikova. Marlin searched her friends list but didn’t find Aleksandra. However, he saw several more photos of Tatyana that increased his confidence that he’d found Aleksandra’s sister, or maybe a cousin.
“Wow. She’s pretty,” Nicole said, suddenly behind him in her nightshirt. “What are you doing in here? Cruising for chicks on the Internet?”
“Don’t tell my wife.”
She kissed him on the top of his head, then peered over his shoulder. “Russia?”
“You think this woman looks anything like Aleksandra Babikova?”
She leaned closer. “Hmm.”
“Hold on. Look at a couple more.” He clicked through the photos.
“I’d say yeah, she does. Almost certainly. Sister?”
“I don’t know.”
“Definitely a likeness.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Nicole stretched and yawned. “Gotta go shower.”
Marlin nodded. He clicked the Message button on Tatyana Babikova’s profile and began to type.
“Problem is, I have this one place on my back I can never quite reach,” Nicole said. “Very frustrating. If only there were a way to emerge from the shower with all of my parts properly scrubbed.”
Marlin stopped writing. He could see Nicole grinning at him in the reflection on the computer monitor. He said, “I’d be more than happy to offer my services.”
“Oh, you would? That is so generous of you. Give me five minutes first to shave my legs.”
Shortly thereafter, Marlin heard the shower running.
He quickly finished writing the message:
Hello, Tatyana. My name is John Marlin. I am a game warden (a type of law enforcement officer) in Texas, in the United States. Is Aleksandra Babikova your sister? I am attempting to reach her regarding a routine matter. I understand she lives in Dallas now. Do you have a phone number or email address for her? Does she have a Facebook account? I appreciate your cooperation. Thank you.
In the morning, after Betty Jean had left for work, Billy Don stayed in bed and started thinking about everything that had happened with Armando—and he ended up feeling worse than he had the day before. He felt guilty. Yes, Red was the one who’d bullied Armando into spilling the beans about the pig, but what had Billy Don done about it? Nothing, really. He’d stood there and let it happen. He could’ve spoken up a little more forcefully, but no, he hadn’t. Red had kept running his mouth, and Billy Don hadn’t shut him up. And Armando had gotten upset.
It was weird the way Billy Don felt about Armando. Not weird in a bad way, but weird nonetheless, or maybe just different. It took awhile for Billy Don to figure out what it was, but he eventually realized that he felt inclined to treat Armando the same way he’d treat a woman. Just like Billy Don wouldn’t put up with anyone saying mean things to Betty Jean, he didn’t want to see Armando get his feelings hurt. He wanted to protect him.
If Armando had been just a regular guy, Billy Don would’ve let him fend for himself. That’s the thing—most regular guys would’ve told Red to go screw himself, and Billy Don wouldn’t have had to speak up at all. For instance, if Red had gotten into an argument or a disagreement with some other guy working on a construction job, not only would Billy Don have stayed out of it, it might’ve even turned into a good source of entertainment. Red and the other guy could call each other names, trade insults, maybe make idle threats, and Billy Don would stand back and enjoy the show.
But it was different with Armando. If you called him, say, a big dickhead, he wouldn’t turn around and take a swing at you, and he wouldn’t call you a gigantic horse’s ass and then forget the whole thing. Instead, he’d reply with some insult you might not even understand. Or he’d act like he didn’t really care, but you’d be able to tell that he was upset.
Billy Don didn’t understand it, but he thought Armando was a pretty good guy—heck, a great guy—and it was really uncool the way Red had behaved. There were times when Billy Don was almost embarrassed to be associated with a guy like Red.
Bottom line, Armando deserved an apology—not just from Red, but from Billy Don, too.
Billy Don grabbed the phone off the nightstand and dialed Armando’s number. Four rings, then it went to voicemail. Billy Don hung up. He wanted to apologize to Armando in person, not in a voicemail. Maybe Armando was already at work.
So Billy Don called the flower shop. The old lady who owned the place answered, and when Billy Don asked for Armando, he could tell from the way the lady reacted that something bad had happened.
Sheriff Bobby Garza and Chief Deputy Bill Tatum rode downward in the hospital elevator, frustrated, because their visit had largely been a waste of time.
“Had to’ve been Gilbert Weems,” Tatum said.
“I agree,” Garza said.
“Do we have enough for a warrant?”
“I’ll talk to the county attorney, but I don’t think so.”
Witnesses the night before had said that a tall redheaded man—appearing to be intoxicated—had been in the convenience store just moments before the victim was assaulted. Video from inside the store confirmed those accounts, and that the customer was indeed Gilbert Weems. But there were no video cameras outside the store.
Worse, nobody saw the actual assault. And the victim—a young man named Armando Salazar—had just confirmed that he had no memory of the event. Garza and Tatum had asked him questions for ten minutes, but it had proven futile. Salazar said that he had woken up that morning unsure where he was and why he was there. He couldn’t even recall pulling in to the convenience store parking lot the night before. A nurse had told him he’d been assaulted.
But there were two small bits of good news. First, Salazar’s memory might come back, either partially or completely. Might happen in a few hours, a few days, or a few weeks. Or it might not happen at all, but Garza preferred to remain optimistic.
Second—Garza had learned this last night—Salazar had been on the phone right before he was assaulted. He’d been speaking to a local woman, Sharon Greene, and she had heard the attacker use a slur against Salazar. Not a slur about being Hispanic, a slur about being gay. It was a hate crime, which meant the penalty would be more severe.
“Can we show Salazar a photo lineup?” Tatum asked. “Maybe that’ll spur his memory.”
“We could, but that’s a risk,” Garza said. “Right now, he remembers nothing. If we show him a lineup of redheads now, even if his memory comes back later, a defense attorney can say Salazar doesn’t really remember anything, and t
hat it was the lineup that made him ‘remember’ a redhead assaulting him.”
Tatum let out a sigh. “I understand, but it’s still tempting.”
“It is, but let’s give it a day or two. See if he remembers anything. In the meantime, I think it’s time to put some major pressure on the Bryants.”
CHAPTER 24
As Red and Billy Don rode upward in the elevator in silence, Red was starting to resent the many ways Armando was interrupting his life. Every day it was something new, and it was downright irritating.
Red had wanted to get some hunting time in this morning, because the pig he’d seen last night on the Kringelheimer Ranch was probably still roaming the immediate vicinity. Then, after lunch, Red had been planning to contemplate the possibility of laying the groundwork to prepare to look for some new paying projects today. Maybe call up some of his regular clients, or at least write all their numbers down on a handy list, so he could call them tomorrow, or later in the week. These things took careful planning. You had to be organized.
But Billy Don had called and insisted on going to the hospital to see Armando. And that meant the entire day was probably shot, even if they only stayed for an hour or so, because Red had discovered that once he’d lost his momentum, it was hard to get it back. Even something as simple as going to the bathroom could bring Red’s workday to an early halt.
“The hell’s wrong with him?” Red had asked when Billy Don had called.
“Got beat up outside the convenience store.”
Which made Red wonder: What kind of man ends up in the hospital on account of a split lip or a black eye? Ridiculous. Take your lumps and get on with it. Who rides in an ambulance for a bloody nose? A drama queen like Armando, that’s who.
“I ain’t hangin’ around long,” Red said now. “Place smells funny.”
“Fine,” Billy Don replied. “You don’t have to come in at all.”
“But you asked me to come.”